Twinkle Twinkle Little Star
by Bundibird
Summary: Dean's been off his game for a week now; pale and distracted, staring blankly at random things and zoning out for minutes at a time, and Dad's finally had enough. Because tonight, Dean screwed up. Pre-series, Teenchesters. Oneshot.


**AN: Angst abounds here, people. Ye have been warned. Also, there is blood. Not the boys' blood, but some of you might find it a little gory. It's nothing too bad, really, but I wanted to warn you just in case. **

**Summary: Dean's been off his game for a week now; pale and distracted, staring blankly at random things and zoning out for minutes at a time, and Dad's finally had enough. Because tonight, Dean screwed up. Pre-series, Teenchesters.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. **

**Warnings: Potentially distressing topics. **

**Ages: Dean's 19 and Sammy's 15. **

**...**

Dean's been off his game for a week now, and you're starting to get seriously concerned.

He's been pale and distracted, zoning out and staring blankly at random things for – you timed him once – up to seven minutes straight. Most of the time he only snaps out if you or Dad shout his name (because if you say it any quieter than a shout, he just doesn't hear you) or hit him in the arm or wave a hand in front of his face.

You ask him more than once what's up, and every time he just pulls one of his 'I'm fine' grins up over the blank canvas of his face and tells you that nothing's up, and don't you have some homework or something to be doing, you little nerd?

You know Dad's noticed it, despite that he hasn't brought it up, but that was when it was just happening at home.

It's gone too far now for Dad to let it slide.

Because this evening, Dean screwed up.

It was supposed to just be a simple salt-n-burn. Some old, rickety abandoned house that had been sitting empty for over fifty years was finally gonna be pulled down, and the crazy ghost lady that lived there wasn't happy about that. Six dead men later and in come the cavalry: the Winchester boys, all three of them armed with iron bars and salt, a lighter each and some accelerant to boot.

The chick had been pregnant, according to their research, and she'd died in the nursery giving birth prematurely to a baby who was so early that he didn't outlive her long. No one had mobile phones in the 40's, and she'd been alone in the house. Husband found them both when he arrived home from work that evening.

They'd been cremated – mother and child both – and after that day the husband never set foot in the house again.

You don't think _anyone_ ever set foot in the house again, judging by the state it had been in when the three of you got there this evening. Furniture with time-stained sheets over the top, dust an inch thick over every surface, a delicate china mug on the kitchen table that you don't think has been moved since 1943.

And the nursery. Untouched, since the day Mr Dunsen found his family dead on the floor.

Wallpapered walls and an empty cot. White shelves with wooden toys almost buried by half a century of dust and grime, still waiting for a baby that never had a chance to play with them.

And the rug on the floor, with the bloodstain in the middle the only clue as to what happened on that spot so many years ago; the only thing still tying the dead woman to this dimension.

A simple salt-n-burn.

Except that Dean had faltered the second he entered the nursery ahead of you, stilling and staring wide eyed at the stain on the rug as though nothing else in the world existed.

Even nudging him roughly had failed to snap him out of it, and then you'd had other things to contend with than a frozen brother. You were the first person to notice your breath turning to mist, and your cry of warning was heard only by Dad as the dead woman flickered into view by the cot.

She'd been crying, tears making tracks down her face and dripping off her chin onto the once-pretty sundress she'd been wearing when she died. It was a dark, wet red from the navel down, and the blood dripped steadily onto the floor to make a puddle under her bare feet.

At fifteen you've already seen a lot of things, but that woman – her belly still swollen and her lifeblood dripping slowly down her legs as she stood pale-faced in front of her dead son's empty cot – was one of the most disturbing things you've seen to date.

And then she'd opened her mouth and shrieked, and things had gotten a little crazy for a while.

She'd known what you were there for (they always know, somehow) and she'd been screaming and wooden toys had been flying, and you and Dad had ducked and weaved and tried to get close enough to either hit her with your iron bars or torch the blood-soaked rug.

And Dean had just stood there staring at the dark red stain, a stunned expression on his face that at the time you couldn't quite name, completely oblivious to the vengeful spirit wreaking havoc around him.

Dad had been hollering and you'd been yelling and you could barely hear anything over the howling wind roaring through the nursery, and then Dad had stumbled heavily into the crib and that was apparently the tipping point for the dead woman, because she'd shrieked in rage and upped her game from throwing _things_ to throwing _people_.

Dad had hit the wall first with a heavy thud and a curse, and then it had been your turn, and you'd ended up crumpled and groaning on the floor near(ish) to the bloodstained rug.

Before your eyes had a chance to refocus, you'd heard a surprised sound and a thud, and you'd looked up to see Dean – staring now at the ghost and still with that nameless expression on his face – on his back on the floor, with the flickering woman on top of him, a snarl on her face and her hand raised to end this attempt on her afterlife once and for all.

And then, before you'd had a chance to even cry out, Dean had whispered, "I'm sorry," in a startlingly choked voice, and the ghost had paused, looking confused.

"I'm sorry," Dean had said again, and it had suddenly registered with you that his expression was a confusing mix of lost and distressed and empathic and sad – so, so _sad_ – and the ghost had still been hesitating in apparent confusion and it was the best chance you'd had since entering the blasted nursery so you'd tossed the salt and the lighter at the same time, and the dust must have helped it along because even without any accelerant the rug had caught fire immediately, and a moment later the ghost had given one final shriek and exploded into nothing, and the nursery had gone abruptly silent aside from everyone's heavy breathing.

And then Dad had snarled, "What the _hell_, Dean?" and the silence was broken.

You'd levered yourself up, adrenaline still pumping wildly through your veins, and Dean hadn't moved an inch; was still staring blankly at the spot where the ghost had been, and it was only when Dad barked, "_Dean,"_ that he'd startled violently and looked around, eyes wide and shocked-looking.

"Dean?" you'd asked, concern in your voice, because Dean's breath had been coming in panting, halting gasps that just didn't sound right and he was shaking, and your brother's eyes had done a hit and run with yours before he'd swallowed roughly and clambered to his feet, silent apart from his gasping breaths.

You'd risen with him and darted forward when he'd staggered, but he'd caught himself on the wall just in time and saved himself from a face-plant, and he hadn't said a word to either you or Dad before he'd literally stumbled out of the room, unsteady on his feet and leaning heavily on the wall for support.

You'd exchanged a concerned look with Dad (Dad's expression had been more angrily confused than worried, but the concern had definitely been there) before following your brother out of the room without a backwards glance at the once-haunted nursery and the still-burning rug.

You'd found Dean outside, head in the bushes and violent tremors wracking his body as he'd thrown up everything he'd eaten earlier that evening, and it hadn't made sense to you because, as disturbing as that whole scene in the house had been, it was hardly enough to make _you_ throw up, and you know Dean's seen _way_ worse things than you have.

"What the hell was that all about?" Dad had demanded, exiting the house behind you, and you'd quietly but firmly suggested that maybe you should get Dean home first, because your brother had finished vomiting but he'd still been shaking violently and not making eye contact with anyone, looking pale and wide-eyed and decidedly not ready for explanations, and Dad had reluctantly agreed.

So here you are, standing in the kitchen of your most recent rental and waiting for Dean to explain.

He's still pale and shocked-looking, but his shaking has stopped, and that's more of a relief than you can say.

Dean's never reacted like this to a hunt – you're the one that vomited in the trees after you witnessed your first werewolf-killing and you're the one who was shaking for an hour the first time you saw all the corpses hanging in a wendigo's lair. Dean's the one who rubbed your back and patted your arm and told you that it was ok, you'd get used to it, and Dean's the one who stayed calm and collected through stuff that had even Dad reaching for the whiskey bottle.

Dean doesn't react like this to hunts. And yet… today he did.

"So you wanna tell us what that was all about?" Dad asks, and there's more of the concern and less of the anger now than there was before, because the adrenaline has worn off and Dad's calmed down, and it would be obvious even to a blind man how shaken up Dean is.

Dean looks like there's really nothing he'd rather do _less_ than explain what that was all about, but he knows an order when he hears one (kindly phrased or not), and he licks his lips and swallows and scratches vaguely at his arm before he answers, voice pitched low in a nearly successful effort to hide the vague tremble.

"Um..." he starts, and he's not looking at either of you. "So, Elly came by the other day. While you were both out."

Elly. Elise Marton, the nineteen year old brunette with whom Dean's been spending most of his free time with since you arrived in this town two months ago.

At the mention of her, some part of your brain – a very distant part, so distant that you don't even notice it at first – goes, _oh,_ while the rest of you is still wondering confusedly what she's got to do with any of this.

"She uh," Dean goes on, and clears his throat.

He looks scared, you realise suddenly. Absolutely shit-scared, though he's doing a fairly good job of making it look like bad nervousness instead of the near-terror that it is, and suddenly that distant part of your brain speaks up and you realise what Dean's gonna say before he says it.

"She..." a deep breath... "wanted to let me know that she was pregnant," Dean says, not in a rush – as though he's pulling off a bandaid – but very clearly and at his normal speaking pace, like a soldier admitting to his superior that he's screwed up, and doesn't want there to be any confusion over the details of just how badly he's screwed up.

Even though you guessed it was coming just before it did, the admission still blows you away and you stare at your brother, eyes wide and jaw agape as you try to process this.

If truth be told, you always kind of suspected this might happen one day. Dean's not exactly the most chaste guy in all of history (you don't think he could possibly be any _less_ chaste, actually), and you don't think there's been a town that you've stayed in since Dean was fifteen that _hasn't _had a girl fall prey to your brother's charms, so really, the news shouldn't come as that much of a shock.

But it does, and you're still busy gaping wordlessly when Dad recovers enough from his own stunned silence to turn the colour of a thundercloud and take a furious step forward.

"She's _what?" _he growls dangerously, and you distantly think to yourself that that's a really annoying question, because you _know_ Dad heard Dean perfectly well.

"She did the test that morning," Dean goes on in that quiet wavering voice, still looking at the ground. He's kind of shrunk in on himself; arms folded across his chest and head tucked down, as though he's subconsciously trying to make himself as small as possible. Or as though he's trying to hold himself together. "Three of them, to make sure. She came by straight after, to let me know."

"...When?" you're surprised to hear yourself ask.

Dean's eyes skitter across the floor to do a hit and run at your feet, and then he looks away again.

"Tuesday," he answers, and then the timeline makes sense. Tuesday was a week ago. Now you know the cause of the sudden space-outs and the blank, lost staring.

"_What the hell were you thinking?"_ Dad roars, and it's like he's a wave that's been building up and up off shore and has finally crashed down on the sand with the force of Thor, and Dean flinches violently at the sudden rage.

You were subjected to The Talk a year or two ago, and you know Dean got it years before you did.

"You wanna mess around with a girl, that's your business," Dad had said, all gruff and stern. "But you _take precautions_, you hear me? We can't afford for you to get some girl pregnant, so _don't let it happen,_ y'hear?"

You remember how angry he'd gotten at the mere thought of you getting some chick pregnant, and you remember resolving to never let it happen just so that you'd never have to experience the wroth you knew would otherwise come your way.

You were right to do so, apparently, because you're not even the one on the receiving end of his fury now, but it's still damn bad. You reckon the people in the next state might be able to hear the reaming out that Dad's giving Dean.

And Dean's not saying a word, not getting at all defensive or throwing out any excuses or claiming that it's fine or that he's got it under control; he's just standing there with his head bowed, arms wrapped around himself and his eyes closed tight, taking it as Dad yells and rants.

There's something very wrong with that.

"I mean, what the hell are you gonna do, Dean?" Dad yells, and he's wrapping it up now – slowing down a little. "You can't pay child support – you can barely pay for gas for the car! What, you're gonna leave the girl to deal with this on her own? Or were you planning on taking the kid with us? You got any plans at all, or were you just gonna wing it? What the _hell_, Dean?"

"Yeah," Dean says quietly, his voice hoarse and heavy and his eyes still tracing patterns into the wooden floorboards, and there's something very, very wrong here, you just haven't worked out what it is yet.

Dean should be defensive, should be belligerent. Should be blaming it on the condom that broke or the pill that the girl was supposed to be on or _something._ He shouldn't be just standing there, so quiet, just taking it as Dad reams him out.

You glance at Dad to see if he's picked it too, that there's something _very not-right_ here, but judging by the simmering fury still in his eyes, you don't think he has.

"Well, you don't have to worry about any of that," Dean continues hoarsely, and he finally raises his head and looks at Dad, his jaw tight and his eyes just the tiniest bit damp. "Elly, she, ah... made an appointment. Saw the Doc this morning. She's, ah… she's not pregnant anymore."

Oh.

_Oh_.

The rug. The rug with the blood on it – the blood that a pregnant woman bled as she gave birth to her child two months too early.

The parallels are obvious, and it suddenly makes sense to you why Dean was staring so intently at that rug back in the nursery, oblivious as the ghost ran rampant.

What's the difference between a miscarriage and an abortion anyway, when you really get down to it? They both end the same way – with a girl no longer pregnant; a budding life no longer existent.

The sudden silence in the kitchen is loud, and Dad's got this shocked look on his face like someone just punched him in the gut, and Dean drops his eyes again and shifts a little, tightening his arms.

You're staring at him too, you know you are, and you know that's got to be making him uncomfortable, but you can't help it. It all makes sense now – the way he's been so spaced out this past week and now – today – his reaction to the ghost and the nursery and the bloodied rug. And the way he said sorry to her, like he knew exactly what she was going through.

"Dean..." Dad says, his voice soft and hoarse, and there's a _why didn't you tell me _and an _I could have helped you_ and an _I'm sorry_, _son_ all clearly audible in his tone and plain to see on his stricken face.

"I'm, uh," Dean cuts in, clearing his throat and swiping at his nose. " 'm really tired, so I'm uh, gonna... head to bed..."

He doesn't look up as he says it, and he pushes off the counter and heads swiftly past you and out of the kitchen, and you and Dad just stand there like stunned fish and watch as he goes, and a moment later you hear the door to your shared room click softly as he shuts it behind him, and then the house it utterly silent.

You don't say anything to Dad, and Dad doesn't say anything to you – just goes and slumps at the table and pours himself a shot of Jack which he stares at but doesn't drink – and you turn and start doing the dishes from earlier that night, not because you particularly want to but because it's something to pass the time, and you think Dean might need some time by himself right now.

Because yeah, a baby would have been a serious complication, and Dad was right – it's not like they could have taken it with them or paid constant child support or just left Elly to deal with it alone – but it's still a seriously bitter pill to swallow, because the fact of the matter is that Dean could have been a _dad,_ could have had a _kid – had_ had a kid, in fact, even if the kid in question was just a little jellybean of a thing inside someone's belly – and now Dean's never gonna get to hold that kid; is never gonna even get to meet it or hold it or teach it how to throw a ball or ride a bike or hold a shotgun.

And for all that some people claim that abortions are no big deal and that un-impregnating yourself is just run-of-the-mill and nothing to freak out about, you've read the psychology reports (health class – how to turn teenagers celibate in half an hour), and you know that really, that's not true. People try to convince themselves that it's no big deal and they talk about it flippantly like it's nothing bigger than deciding whether to get a nose job or not, because that's easier than thinking about the fact that it's a tiny life they're talking about – a tiny, partially developed human that they're deciding the fate of.

And you also know that – no matter that the kid is half him and half her – it's the mother that really gets the final say in the matter, and that sucks even worse now than it did when you first learnt it because you know that if Dean had been given a say, he would have stuck with it – wouldn't have picked abortion; would have picked the kid and damn the consequences.

Holy shit, you think. You would have been an uncle. Neither you or Dad are saying anything at the moment, but if you had been you would have been rendered speechless just now by that realisation.

You do the dishes as slowly as you can, wanting to give Dean as much time as possible before you go in there, but eventually there's nothing more to clean and you've got school tomorrow and a test first period, so you really should have gone to bed ages ago and there's nothing more that you can use as an excuse to avoid it.

The room is dark when you enter, but your eyes to adjust slowly as you fumble blindly under your pillow where you left your t-shirt and boxers.

Dean's lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling, and you know he's not asleep because you've spend most of your life sharing a room with Dean and you can tell when he's asleep and when he's not, and right now he's not.

"Dean..." you say quietly, because even though you don't know what the hell to say you know you should say _something,_ right?

"Just..." Dean says, cutting you off like he did with Dad earlier, closing his eyes and turning his head away. "Just... don't, Sammy. Don't."

So you don't – possibly because he called you Sammy, and he hasn't called you that in years. It's a term of endearment he stopped using sometime after you turned thirteen and got 'all moody and bitchy,' and it's a sign of how down Dean is right now that he's reverting to the childish nickname.

So you say nothing and get changed in silence, and you slip under your covers quietly and get comfortable, and then there's silence in the room for a few minutes.

And then, because you can't keep it in and because – as useless as it is – you think Dean needs it, you say quietly into the darkness, "I'm sorry."

The only sign that Dean hears it is the single hitch in his breathing, but he says nothing in response and you don't say anything further, and after a long while you fall asleep.

Before you drift off though, you glance once more across at Dean.

He's still awake, staring blankly at the ceiling.

...end...

**AN****: I told you – not a happy fic. I'd love a review – I'd really appreciate whatever feedback you have, cause this was pretty far outside my normal style/genre/plot. **

**Thanks for reading!**

**Bundi**

****EDIT** Someone mentioned in a review that they thought this fic was a bit too "anti-abortion." That's not at all my intent with this story - he point of the fic is to show Dean's reaction to what happened, not whether or not abortion is morally right or wrong. Regardless of my own opinion on the topic, I honestly think that Dean would be the kind of person to be upset by the abortion of his own child. So, in short - this is not intended as an opinion-piece on abortion. It's merely a story of one guy's reaction to it. **


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